


Of Scones and Jam and Other Things That Are Sweet

by GretaOto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Fluff, Jam, M/M, No Angst, Not Even A Little Bit Of Angst I'm So Proud of Myself, Schmoop, Scones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 06:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4128573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretaOto/pseuds/GretaOto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John loves jam. Sherlock loves John. Good things happen when you combine all three. (Also known as, Mrs. Hudson knows exactly what she’s doing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Scones and Jam and Other Things That Are Sweet

“Yoo hoo, boys!” Mrs. Hudson cooed, knocking on the frame of the open door to Apartment B. 

_As if we would leave the door open while doing anything scandalous_ , John thought with some amusement. As if the two of them ever did anything scandalous. Not like that. 

Not that Mrs. Hudson had ever been convinced otherwise, even from the very first. 

Sherlock was, as usual, engrossed in an experiment in the kitchen, oblivious to the world around him. Jon sighed. “Come in Mrs. Hudson,” he called out. 

“Oh, I do hope I'm not interrupting anything”, Mrs. Hudson said as she stepped through the door with a tray in one hand and a small silver bowl in the other. 

John thought she might have winked at him, but decided he must have imagined it. 

“Only, I made a few too many scones for book club, and I just thought you might enjoy the extras. They're still warm from the oven. I have some extra clotted cream as well, but I'm afraid I'm all out of jam, unfortunately.” 

John set down his book and quickly rose from his chair to relieve their dear landlady of her precious burden. Fresh scones were not a thing to mess around with. 

“Oh Mrs. Hudson, ta ever so much! These smell lovely, but you didn't have to. And don't you worry about the jam, I have plenty in the fridge; Sherlock knows better than to use it in any of his experiments.” 

“You know how to manage him so well, John. It's just lovely,” Mrs. Hudson fluttered. “Do enjoy those scones, I'm off to my book club now. Have a nice day dearies,” she said, raising her voice slightly so that Sherlock could hear her in the kitchen. 

John was mildly surprised to hear Sherlock grunt in return. 

Mrs. Hudson grinned in delight, well aware that an absent-minded acknowledgement from Sherlock was the equivalent of an effusive greeting from anyone else, and waved goodbye to John before leaving, closing the door behind her. 

John looked down at the plate in his hands. Six perfect scones. They smelled tantalizing. Delectable. Perfection. He could feel the saliva begin to pool in his mouth in anticipation. 

“Sherlock,” he said as he entered the kitchen, “do you prefer your scones with jam and cream, or with honey?” Sherlock didn't answer, just waved one hand in an ‘I don’t care’ gesture. Jam it was then. 

John opened the fridge and considered the contents of the top shelf, where his jars of jam were safely nestled among the few other edibles. He steadfastly ignored the liver on the second shelf and the bag of toes in the crisper drawer; he had long since gotten used to ignoring the lower parts of the fridge, once Sherlock learned to abide by his “top shelf is for edible food only” rule. 

(It had taken one or two shouting matches, several experiments discarded as revenge, and finally the creative relocation of mis-stored body parts into Sherlock’s wardrobe and sock index, but eventually the lesson stuck.) 

_Hmmm, decisions, decisions._ Was it a raspberry kind of day, John wondered, or was he feeling partial to strawberry? Or was he feeling adventurous, like marionberry or currant jelly? The cool air from the fridge was soothing as he slowly turned the decision over in his mind, mentally letting the flavors caress his taste buds, imagining how each one would taste with the fresh cream and buttery scones. 

_One of each,_ John eventually decided indecisively. Then he could try the plum spread that one of his patients had gifted him several weeks ago (always risky, but he never could turn down jam, regardless of the source). And he could use the last of the orange marmalade that Sherlock had bought for an experiment before deciding he didn’t need it after all (those were John’s favorite type of experiments, by far). 

Decision made, John pulled down a large plate from the cupboard (one he personally washed just the day before, so he knew it was clean), and set about artfully arranging the scones on the plate, humming contentedly under his breath. Each scone he carefully divided in half, then topped each half with a dollop of cream and a generous spoonful of jam. He made sure to place one of each flavor on each half of the plate, just in case he could convince Sherlock to eat some of them. Although, for once, John wouldn’t mind at all if Sherlock wasn’t interested in eating. 

Plate prepared, John turned to survey the kitchen table, where Sherlock was still engrossed in staring at something under his microscope. A pile of slides were neatly stacked off to his left, but otherwise the table was completely empty, almost clean. Sherlock must have just started a new experiment, and it hadn’t yet expanded to engulf every available surface. Wonderful. 

John sat down next to Sherlock and placed the plate of scones between the two of them. He gently nudged Sherlock’s knee with his own. 

“Fresh scones from Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock,” he said. “That half is yours. You should eat them while they’re still warm.” 

Sherlock hummed absently, but made no move to reach for the pastries. _His loss_ , John shrugged. 

John turned his attention to the plate of deliciousness, considering where to start. His tongue absently flicked out, wetting his lips, and we wriggled his fingers in anticipation. 

_Plum_ , he decided, _I’ll start with the plum. If it’s terrible, I can wash the taste away with the other ones._

John lifted the plum-drenched scone to his lips and took a tentative nibble. He made a noise of surprise appreciation. It was really quite good; he might have to ask his patient for the recipe. He took another, larger, bite, and let out a happy little hum. He definitely needed to get that recipe, to see if Mrs. Hudson would make him a batch. 

Sherlock’s eyes flickered up from the microscope, up to John and then quickly back down towards his work. 

If John had been watching, he might have seen the surprise on Sherlock’s face, but he was too happily engrossed in his treat. He finished off the scone with one last bite, then sucked a stray bit of cream off his forefinger while he made his next choice. 

Sherlock’s eyes flickered again. His gaze lingered fractionally longer this time, focusing briefly on the way John’s lips pursed around his finger. 

_Marmalade second_ , John selected. It didn’t properly belong on scones, but John definitely enjoyed the occasional bit of marmalade scraped on his morning toast (when he had time for toast, and wasn’t dragged out half-dressed and still groggy by his impatient, overgrown child of a flatmate). The tart citrus flavor was a nice way to add a little zing to his day. 

John took a large bite of this one, engulfing half the scone in his eagerness. He hummed happily around the mouthful of fruit and cream and soft, flaky pastry. 

Sherlock’s fingers froze on the focus knob of his microscope. 

John swallowed his bite. “Aren’t you going to try one, Sherlock?” he asked. “Mrs. Hudson really has outdone herself this time.” 

Sherlock shook his head rapidly, eyes defiantly fixed on the contents of his slide. John couldn’t imagine what Sherlock could be looking at that was so much more interesting than scones and jam, but then again, this was Sherlock. John was never entirely sure what was going on inside his mad consulting flatmate’s brain. 

John shrugged again, and finished off the marmalade in a second large bite. Maybe he would get to eat all of them after all. That was a burden he could gladly bear. He licked a smear of stray jam off his thumb, then chased another smear from the corner of his mouth with the tip of his mobile tongue. 

Sherlock let out a short, quiet groan, quickly stifled, as if all the air had been knocked out of him. 

John didn’t notice; he was too focused on his next choice. _Currant jelly. Definitely currants next._ it would be the perfect transition from the tart marmalade to the sweetness of the other berries. 

And oh, it was indeed perfect. Slightly sweet, slightly sour. A unique flavor that was unlike any other fruit, impossible to describe. His happy hum deepened towards a moan. John couldn’t help but sigh deeply, eyes fluttering briefly closed as he swallowed his last bite. Hopefully Sherlock wouldn’t want any scones after all. He could happily enjoy more of that one. 

Sherlock swallowed convulsively, synchronously with John. He bit the corner of his lip, holding in a matching moan, hoping that John would just finish his scones quickly and leave before he got much more distracting. 

But John was taking his time now. He had rushed through the first three, and needed to slow down, to savor this delight for as long as it lasted. It wasn’t often that he had this kind of uninterrupted time with his jams. By now, he was as engrossed in the food as Sherlock was (or had been, prior to John’s interruption) in his slides. 

Raspberry would definitely be last. It was John’s favorite, by far. He always kept a jar of raspberry in the fridge, and god help anyone in sight if he found it empty in the morning. But that left strawberry and marionberry first, and John just couldn’t decide. 

John licked his lips, then dipped one forefinger in each of the two flavors, wiping a smear of jam from the edge of the two scones. He took a delicate taste of the strawberry, and rubbed it around in his mouth, mulling over the flavors. He tasted the marionberry next, just the smallest nibble, contemplating its deep, opulent color. The rich purple shade reminded him of Sherlock’s favorite shirt, the wine-colored one that strained just slightly at the buttons. John absently sucked the rest of the strawberry off his finger while thinking about that purple shirt. 

Sherlock took the opportunity of John’s distraction to stare openly, mesmerized by the sight of John’s strong, capable finger moving in and out between his lips. His own tongue flickered out to wet his lips as John cleaned the rest of the marionberry jelly from his other finger and reached towards the strawberry-topped scone. He managed to avert his gaze back to the eyepieces just as John looked over at him. 

John chewed contemplatively on his scone as he watched Sherlock fiddle with the stage, moving the slide around before replacing it abruptly with the next one on the stack. 

“What are you studying there? Is this for a new case?” John asked around his mouthful of jam. 

“Pollen samples. No case. Updating my index on regional pollens. Climate change is affecting the distribution of flowering plants you know.” Sherlock was quite proud of himself, that he managed to answer John’s question fully without a hint of tremor in his voice. He hoped that John had missed the unsteadiness of his fingers on the knobs. 

John merely raised his eyebrows briefly. “Oh, well, good on you, I guess. You sure it can’t wait? These scones are divine.” 

“Not hungry,” Sherlock bit back. “You know I don’t eat while I’m working. Stop distracting me, John.” 

“Your loss,” John responded, reaching for the marionberry scone. In the warmth of the kitchen, the cream was beginning to melt, and he caught a few drops with his other hand. He methodically cleaned them off his palm with long swipes of his tongue before focusing back on the scone in hand. 

John savored it, drawing it out to four whole bites, chewing each one slowly until it dissolved into sweetness and joy. He closed his eyes, all the better to heighten his senses of taste and smell, to focus on this rare treat. 

Sherlock gave up on his pollen slides. One hand slipped into his lap, to clench convulsively around the fabric of his trousers. His eyes roamed hungrily over John’s expression of bliss, the way his strong jaw worked tenderly, the little slips and darts of his tongue as he made sure to capture every last crumb. 

John opened his eyes, but his whole focus was on the last, raspberry scone. His eyelids slipped closed again at the first bite. He moaned, louder, unrestrained, as if there was nothing on earth that could bring him more pleasure at that moment. 

“Mmm. Oh God, that’s good. That’s so good,” John groaned around the scone, too far gone to worry about speaking with his mouth full. “Yes, oh, yes, just like that. That’s fantastic.” 

Once the scone was gone, John licked the last morsels of jam from his lips and fingers. He sat there, eyes still closed, breathing deeply for a few moments. 

“Sherlock,” John began, opening his eyes to look hopefully at his flatmate. “Last chance. If you don’t want yours, I--.” He broke off suddenly, perplexed at the sight before his eyes. 

Sherlock was staring at him, grey eyes wide and slightly unfocused with a strange light. His lips were parted slightly and he was breathing heavily, cheeks tinged with pink. Both hands were grasping at his trousers. 

>“Are you okay, Sherlock? What’s wrong?” John asked, concerned by the sudden change in Sherlock’s demeanor. His brow furrowed and his mind raced as he tried to remember if there were any plants in England with toxic pollen. 

Sherlock swallowed heavily. “You, you missed—“ he tried, then stopped. One hand released the crumpled fabric to gesture in the general direction of John’s face. 

"I what? Sherlock, you’re scaring me. What is wrong?” 

“You missed a spot,” Sherlock finally gasped out with a strangled groan. 

John furrowed his brow further. 

It was as if time chose that moment to slow to a crawl. 

Sherlock reached towards John with a long, trembling finger. He gently, tentatively, oh so slowly wiped away a stray smear of raspberry jam from the corner of John’s mouth. He stared at his finger, the red of the berries vivid against his pale skin. And then, as if in a trance, he raised that finger to his mouth. He licked at it, sucked it, until not a single molecule was left, and then dropped his hand back into his lap like a marionette whose strings were cut. 

John stared, stunned. 

His mouth dropped open slightly. 

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, then again, working his lips to thoroughly moisten them. 

Sherlock leaned forward. Time inched slower, as if they had fallen into the event horizon of some giant black hole. His eyes bored into John’s, and John met his gaze, steadily, with equal intensity. 

He stopped, inches from John’s face. John could feel his breath, hot and unsteady. 

John nodded. Just fractionally, but it was enough. 

And then Sherlock was diving forward, closing that last chasm between them. His hands came up to cradle John’s head, slender fingers twining through the short, blonde strands. 

Their lips met in a gentle fury. It was as if a dam had broken, and all the things neither had considered possible came rushing over them, drowning them in the possibilities of each other. 

John licked along the seam of Sherlock’s lips, his tongue – his mobile, infuriating, marvelous tongue – extending an invitation. 

Sherlock lost no time. He opened up to John, drowning in his scent, his taste. He chased the mingled flavors of strawberry and plum across John’s mouth, the tang of orange and currants on his palate, licking and exploring and delving deep until there was nothing left to taste but _John_. 

Wonderful, spectacular, exquisite John. The essence of tea and gun oil, desert air and wool, sandalwood and the cheap shampoo he insisted on using, the lingering antiseptic from hours in the clinic, all the many contradictory things that made up John. His John. His? 

Eventually they broke apart, chests heaving to reclaim oxygen. John pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s, grasping the back of the other man’s neck with one shaky hand. They waiting long moments, equilibrium slowly returning. 

Finally John drew back. A tentative grin lit up his face. “I didn’t know you liked jam that much,” he offered wryly. Sherlock could hear the out, the opening. Even now, John, amazing, stunning, unbelievable John was letting Sherlock set the pace, letting Sherlock decide. 

“No John,” he rumbled, an answering smile breaking out on his reddened lips. “It’s not about the jam.” 

“I was hoping you would say that.” 

John’s grin was blinding. Sherlock could feel the heat of it like a noonday desert. It would change him, consume him, and suddenly he wanted nothing more. 

Except, maybe, just a few bites of those magical jam-drenched scones. 

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://40.media.tumblr.com/c16a1b60b198c9132cac026367beed38/tumblr_inline_npumppKFsG1s39ozs_500.jpg)


End file.
